


i lifted up my eyes, and saw in a dream

by ktenologious



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Breeding, Dragon/human sex, Egg Impregnation, Egg Laying, Eggs, Forced Pregnancy, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kinda, M/M, Male Lactation, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Other, Oviposition, Politics, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sreng Gautiers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktenologious/pseuds/ktenologious
Summary: Vestra. Riegan. Gautier. There might be too many tacticians in this playing field, but it is not against the rules to make one disappear.In which Hubert gives Sylvain to the Slitherers for their experiments. Now, what experiments are those?
Relationships: One-sided Hubert/Sylvain, mentions of others - Relationship
Comments: 30
Kudos: 112





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning** : oviposition (dragon/human), mentioned and future somnophilia, mentions of torture, human experimentation, forced pregnancy and abortion (they are eggs), in general lots of fucked up stuff. You have been warned!
> 
> The title comes from the Bible, lol.

Preparing for war is tough work. Hubert knows this, as he has been preparing for a war for the past few years. There are lots of things to do, like train commanders, gather intelligence and make sure your enemies are not aware of what you are doing.

That is possibly the hardest part. The Church itself is not a nation, yet it is one of the most militarized organizations in Fódlan, and that is not considering the support from both Faerghus and the Alliance. The head of both the Church as an institution and the Church as a military force is the same: Archbishop Rhea; the strategic head of the Church, however, is curiously enough a pair of unassuming characters with no past.

Seteth and Flayn. Flayn and Seteth. Even disguised as a pair of siblings, with one of them Academy-aged, it is very obvious they are not what they seem. You cannot take out one without the other, and taking out one is near impossible using the right means. They are heavily guarded and even more heavily monitored.

So, they let Jeritza have his fun while Hubert deals with the other side: the allies.

The Kingdom and the Alliance. Alone, they are no threat against the Empire, but together… Together, they could pose to be a danger.

They had tried already, of course, but Kostas failed. Kostas was always going to fail, and Hubert had had backup plans for his backup plans. Now he has to deal with it himself, and while it is a chore, it has to be done.

Who to take out to inhabilitate the Alliance’s movements? Claude von Riegan, of course. The heir to the Alliance current political leader, and a bright mind of his own. The man is a true strategist, and also spymaster, and taking him out by himself would be impossible for Hubert while still in the academy.

As for Faerghus… That is a little more complicated. While the political power lays on Prince Dimitri, most of the military power of Faerghus is divided across the territory. The lords hold their grudges and one could easily fracture it through them, but that would take much more time than Hubert has in his hands.

He looks at the Academy, at the Blue Lions House. With five nobles in its ranks, Prince included, there has to be one that is a hidden gem, someone with the potential to set back their war effort with a single word. Surely, one out of them would become someone with enough power to change tides on the battlefield.

He finds them within a week in the Academy.

Hubert does admit, the man’s act is flawless, but he has not lived as long as he has by ignoring hidden signals. Sylvain José Gautier is a joke of a man, yet he keeps beating Hubert in chess (a handful of times he has even beaten Claude), he constantly stays in the same rank in exams —his grades are a permanent 70, in every single one of them—, and he also can command the Prince’s attention with a single word and lingering touches, skin on skin, or a quiet whisper.

Then again, _everyone_ is caught in his game. Hubert has seen heads turn enough times, has heard enough gossip to filter through the lies, and he dares admit he looks himself. There is _something_ about Gautier that makes people desire him, not just women but men as well. And not just his body, but _everything_ about him.

So, Hubert plans. He plans, and plots, and waits until Jeritza has made his move to make his own.

It is easy to convince the Professors that Gautier is too sick to go aid in Flayn’s rescue. It is _easy_ because no one checks his lies, no one bothers to see past the layer of masks that make the man feel like breakable porcelain. Unlike Hubert and Claude, who don’t hide their motives unless it is necessary, Gautier keeps his true persona right below his sleeve, unseen by anyone else. All he has to do is pay a woman, buy some more alcohol, and it is done.

“The high and mighty Master Vestra wants to talk to me? I am flattered.” Gautier holds his invitation like a fan before his lips, eyes half-lidded in a sultry expression —and Hubert _wants_ , only for a moment, something he has rarely felt and even more rarely acted on.

Today, he might, just because it is being offered. Gautier doesn’t let his usual animosity show as he straddles Hubert’s lap, keeps that soft smiling mask of his all through the act, even as he arches into his hands and moans out Hubert’s name. Like an expensive and experienced courtesan, never letting their own feelings get in the way of work, always fulfilling fantasies even when they are not their own.

Hubert lets himself _feel_ , and want, and desire for this one time. He forgets his duty for a short while, pulled into the thrall of something beyond his control, and he wants _more_.

More, and more, until Gautier is panting under him, shuddering and tearing up, and only then does Hubert activate the magic he has been waiting all this night to use. Unconscious, Gautier looks even more ethereal, more desirable, and he indulges in it before he has to get to work.

He always did love a good mystery. Locked door, locked window, a medicine cabinet wiped clean of anything he can use (glacier saxifrage is so hard to grow outside of Faerghus), the room cleaned to perfection as Gautier’s obsessive nature is well known. Nothing out of place, even the bed is made, and when he is sure everything is exactly the same as it should be, he warps them out.

The Death Knight will probably finish with whatever is happening underground soon enough, so he has to hurry. The _scientist_ that waits for him at the warp point has their usual mask on, black robes and the usual creepy voice.

Hubert hates these people, but it is a necessity.

“Ah! What a magnificent specimen, yes, this will do nicely,” the person says, looking over Gautier with such manic fervor it is terrifying. “It seems to be big enough for Project O, we will keep you updated, yes, hand it to me! Give it here!”

Hubert has no idea what Project O is, and he doesn’t want to know. He hands Gautier over to the scientist and washes his hands off this whole mess.

The _incident_ is declared a runaway case from a noble too stifled by his duty to continue on, and shoved under the rug just as Hubert had hoped it would. Some unexpected people jump to protest: that little girl from the Deers and the priestess from the Lions are curiously vocal about the disappearance and call it foul play, but their voices go unheard.

From the rest of the Lions, they seem to have lost their anchor. The Prince is even more unhinged, the Duke’s heir adds more training to his schedule, and the Pegasus rider often rants about how she knew something like this would happen. The Lions lose one member, and gain another: Flayn is now part of their class, some way of thanking them for their aid. Still, they keep their unity; maybe Gautier was not as important as Hubert thought.

The loss of the third member of their chess club is a true tragedy, though. Riegan hovers even more by their stolen classroom, usually just sitting there with a white knight in his hand. He spends most of his free time in that room, be it reading or replaying games or studying, and it is more of a reaction than Hubert thought he would get.

They try playing other games. They aren’t as fun without the extra competition.

Lady Edelgard doesn’t ask anything about it, but she keeps giving him these _looks_ like she knows more than she should. Still, her rules are clear: any deals Hubert does with the Agarthans are to be kept quiet unless she asks directly, so he does not tell her of his hand in the heir’s disappearance. _Monica_ keeps her company lately, and Hubert does not like the woman much, so he isn’t around as often as before did.

He does, however, have to check on his _investment_ every once in a while. He waits until every class is out on missions before warping out of the Monastery, right into the underground facility he knows they are keeping Gautier in.

The scientist that meets him is different but just as manic as the other one.

“Master Vestra! It is so nice to see you,” she says, bowing to him before leading him through the maze of corridors and metal doors and yellow-green glowing sigils. They call it magic, but if it is, then it is something very ancient and unrecorded. “We have gone forward with Project O and it is going magnificently! Truly a wonderful specimen you have gifted up, it is just the right size and build for the beast to use. There are no viable results just yet, but the head scientist says just a few more modifications will make the breed take hold safely.”

_Breed_? Now Hubert is curious. He never bothered to ask what Project O was, nor do the scientists speak of it in their reports. All he knows is they needed a large enough subject with a specific set of parameters, and that it involves a beast. The Agarthans have many definitions for _beast_ , though: from Archbishop Rhea to the Saints, to Demonic Beasts and even Wyverns get called the same.

The one he is shown is a _true_ beast. Very real, huge and like nothing he has seen before in real life or records. It is chained inside a giant room with walls made of glass that doesn’t seem to crack or let sound out, as it is hitting one of the walls with its claws and open maw. It seems to roar, but what comes out is a muffled sound like it comes through water.

At first sight, it looks like a Wyvern, but it is very clearly _not_. Wyverns are smaller and have unusually soft scales and underbellies, so much that they need armor if they are to go out in battle. This one is at least twice a Wyvern’s size, maybe even three times, and has scales that look as hard as stone. Its eyes are small and narrowed red, its snout long and its fangs are set in such a way even with its jaws closed they still peek out from under the skin. The claw knocking at the glass is deadly curved, jagged like it was hammered short and with a curious glint Hubert has only seen in diamonds before.

Its head and neck are set in armor, like the bone shield of Demonic Beasts, and it stops near the peak of its spine curve. It has a long and thick scar, covered in moss and stony scales on one side, but the other side shows an arched wing cut short near its back. When it turns and lashes its tail it is covered in feathers, soft and mint green, long and trailing after it like the tail of a bride’s dress.

It looks ancient, with scars of the battlefield everywhere it doesn’t have stone or bone. Definitely more than a few decades old, more than the lifespan of a Wyvern or a naturally born Wild Crest Beast. Whatever it is, it is nothing Hubert has ever seen before, and probably nothing he will ever see again. It thrashes around its cage, a thick collar at its neck and shackles at its legs and arms with chains joining them together.

“This is Lady, though no one else calls it that but the team assigned to its care. It has been here for about two centuries by now, and is close to the end of its assigned lifespan.” The scientist puts her hand on the glass, and Lady swipes its arm at her. “We have been trying to reproduce our predecessors’ creation with no success, so we developed Project O for this purpose. It is _really_ big and angry! We feed it through the ceiling since it cannot fly anymore.”

Hubert looks up at the beast, and cannot see anything resembling Gautier inside the chamber or in its jaws or claws. His confusion seems to be clear in his face because the scientist laughs and motions down the corridor. There is a small door, metallic and sigils running down it. The room seems to be small, stuck in the corner of the glass prison.

“The specimen is this way.” She leads him over there and presses her palm to the sigils. They make a sound like thunder, vanish and the door slides to the side; they walk inside and the door clicks closed once again. “It has been only two months still so there is nothing really, but we know the breeding worked! Lady has been even more active than usual since last week, usually it only sleeps but lately, it has been trying to get out of its confinement— to hunt, we believe, these things are very different from other beasts.”

The light inside the room is barely enough to see, and there are no windows. No ventilation either, as it _reeks_ of everything, but one smell is prevalent over the others: blood. It is just a metal chamber, with a table, a chair and a cot with a trembling figure on top. As Hubert approaches, the trembling comes to a stop in a single breath, eerily so, and the scientist carelessly grabs the sheet covering it and throws it to the ground.

“See here, this is the result of your hard work, Master Vestra! This specimen is _magnifique_ , with just the perfect size and not too resistant —it was easy to make it give in, you see, just a few lightning spells on its spine and it was out.” The scientist reaches and grabs a handful of messy red hair, lifting the figure into what could be a sitting posture if it could. “Master Vestra is here to see the results of our hard work, incubator, so do sit up. Have they come to bathe you yet? Of course not, it isn't a bathing day, but I think you can get some food if you are good!”

It… is Gautier. It is most definitely Gautier, yet he… is not. Gautier always held himself at the centre of attention, like he wanted to draw every eye on to his form, like a lure to catch the fattest fish in the ocean. He always looked _perfect_ and beautiful, attractive to anyone with eyes, with a voice that could sway someone to his ideas even if his arguments made no sense. Gautier was meant to be what Hubert could have been, or what Riegan probably was back home: dashing, cunning, _powerful_.

This man is Sylvain José Gautier, but he is also not. He is naked, covered in grime and blood and wounds carelessly healed only just enough to make him not bleed to death. His face is hollow, his eyes sunken in their sockets and half-closed, his neck is a green and purple mess of bruises and rope burns. There is a huge wound in his shoulder, bandaged and still bleeding. His limbs are but skin and bones with small puncture wounds everywhere the skin is thick enough for it. His head lolls to the side when the scientist moves him, but he makes no other sign of awareness.

His stomach is huge and bulging with something, small bumps protruding from his skin like there is something under them. There is a scar right under it, too big, and for a second Hubert thinks they cut him open and stuffed him full of something.

But that’s not it.

“There are six inside right now, we think, and we believe Lady refuses to mate again as it is the most it can carry.” The scientist lays a hand on the bulging stomach, almost tenderly, and presses down. Gautier makes a small whimper but otherwise there is no reaction. “We don’t know how many of them are fertilized, or how long the incubation period lasts, it is so interesting! The head doctor says six months, but I think it will be a bit longer; they are so big, and Lady is too! The notes said they need warm and dark at all times to incubate properly— there are some records of male specimens of that species carrying their eggs until they hatch, very curious, isn’t it?”

Hubert cannot look away. He touches the skin, stretched to inhumane limits, and it is _warm_. One of the _eggs_ wriggles inside, and Gautier curls up around himself and wraps his arms around his stomach. He is quiet. There is no protest.

“The fertilization process was also very tough, Master Vestra. We keep genetic material in stasis for testing, but we have been running out, so this is our last chance to replicate Lady.” The scientist lets go of Gautier, and he slowly leans down until he is laying on his side, arms still wrapped around his stomach. “They had to make some modifications to this specimen before it could take the eggs, but Lady approved of it —it is so picky with anything it mates with, usually it ends up killing the other beasts we have tried to breed it with. But this here, it seems to be strong enough to pass its standards, isn’t it great?”

She grabs the sheet and covers Gautier with it once again, and Gautier lets her. She then goes to the table and picks up a sheet and a pen, makes some marks on it while still speaking:

“We tried with so many creatures, but humans seem to be its favorite, to eat and mate both. It was a beautiful sight of nature too, I had to— Ah, you don’t want to hear that, right? Now that it has laid its eggs, it is probably going to wait until they hatch before trying again —we have moved the incubator over to its cell, and all it does is cuddle with it, it is so curious. We are gathering lots of data too, like how different Lady is to Demonic Beasts; it is kind of a chimera, so we didn’t know what traits it got from what side, but clearly its breeding and mating habits are more like Nabateans than Beasts? Beasts that can breed are rare, and they tend to lay their eggs in nests, though I guess the incubator is kind of a nest too? Warm, dark, a steady heartbeat… And also the females hunt for the male while it gestates, see, it is—“

Hubert stops listening about midways through her rant.

(He _desires._ )

* * *

_They call her Lady but she has never really felt like that is her name. She does not even know if she is female or male: her kind do not have such strong distinctions, after all. She was born a male, and now she is female. That is just the way of life —it is a natural process, she is what is needed._

_She can lay eggs. She has many eggs to lay. It is uncomfortable, but there is no male near her for them to hatch, and when she lays them outside her those people take them before she can notice. She fears. She knows she is nearing her end, and she does not want her children to die without someone to care for them._

_They will not care for them, those people. They killed her siblings. Ripped them apart for their amusement. But this space is all she has ever known, she does not know if she would survive outside._

_They think she is unthinking. They think she does not know. But she does know, and know a lot: it is in her bones, and her skin, and her claws. She has known since birth._

_She needs to lay her eggs._

_One day they bring a youth into her room. It is small, soft and red, curled up on itself like it will protect it from herself. It smells injured. She wonders if they want her to eat it, or to care for it. What do they want? They push the youth forwards, and it stumbles. It is injured, definitely injured: skin should not be purple, or black, not in that form._

_She approaches and sniffs it —oh, this is no youth. This is a mature male, old enough to hold her eggs. She is pleased. They have brought her one she is compatible with! How nice of them, of these people she hates. She will still kill them all and eat them when she can go free, but for now—_

_For now, she has eggs to lay, and a willing male for her to lay them in. How wonderful!_

_But first, she needs to get rid of these people, and that abomination they have brought into her territory. It is one of those black ones, that ooze of rot and sickness. It tries to attack, but she is faster, and stronger, and she has to protect her future mate._

_The life of the people and the beast spills on the ground, and the male (soft, so soft) trembles before her. She wonders why he has not shifted to his true form yet. Does it matter? It does not._

_She piles up the corpses of those she killed. It is a small nest, definitely not enough for them, but it will be enough for her mate, to keep him warm. She grabs him with her claw, careful of his soft skin and lays him on top of the bleeding corpses. He still trembles. She wonders if it is desire._

_She unsheathes her ovipositor from her abdomen as she licks him clean. He is dirty, and injured, and she has to be careful, but— surely he can take it, can take her, he is a male and she is small even if she is the largest of her kind she has seen._

_He screams when she thrusts into his hole. Ah, it is warm, so warm. Warm and pulsing, and wet, and mixed with her own it makes it easy enough to push in deeper. Deeper, deeper, she has too many eggs, she needs space, needs to go_ deeper _._

_The blood of their makeshift nest is already cooling. Her mate is holding on to those people’s clothes, back arched like he has wings. She wonders if he does. He must be beautiful in his true form, as he is her mate. One day she will ask, but for now—_

_For now, she needs to push her eggs in. She finds a comfortable depth inside her mate, and bows down to lick his face. He is crying in joy, and babbling something. It is alright. It is_ alright _._

_Her first egg takes a long while to pass through her and into him, but it is in. Warm, comfortable, deep. It won’t move anytime soon. She knows it is alive, she can feel it. Her children will be healthy and big and strong, and have a wonderful life. She hopes she will get to see them._

_The second egg takes a bit longer, gets stuck between them. She pushes deeper. Her mate covers his mouth, face soaked with tears. Maybe he needs more energy, she will let him rest after this, he is so small in this form after all._

_She will let him rest, after she feeds him. She will need to hunt a lot for when he goes into his long sleep, she wonders what is safe to eat. That black rotting one? No, not that one. Those people? Hm, maybe, it is certainly better than anything else._

_She grabs a bit of the insides of one of those people, and holds it up to her mate. He looks at her through tears in his eyes, he is so cute and grateful. She pushes the bit of bloody flesh at him, and he takes it in his mouth. Yes. That is how it should be._

_She does not know how long it takes for her second egg to nest inside her mate, but he is asleep by the end of it. Carefully, she gets out of him and—_

_—wakes up alone._

_She rages._

_The next time she sees her mate, she can’t smell her eggs inside him. Were they barren? No, she felt them heavy, they were definitely living._

Those people. _How dare they. She will not let this go._

_For now… time to try again._


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deers don't believe anything people tell them. Also, Hubert.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : non-consensual somnophilia, hinted sexual abuse and some incest (it is Gautier), mentioned medicinal drug use, uuu idk what else. Non-consensual cannibalism? I guess? Oh, male lactation too

The last proof Claude gets is a message in his morning mail, carefully folded and tucked inside an actual letter. _Amelia_ writes him love letters still, even after the ugly break up of their sordid affair back in Derdriu, and she is so sweet he just _has_ to read them instead of throwing them away. He breaks so many hearts, it is a shame he can’t leave the Monastery.

Of course, _Amelia_ is actually a merchant in Faerghus who deals with Srenge drugs. Gautier Poison Masters are actually pretty rare to find, and he is proud to say he probably has one of the last few _official_ ones under his thumb. The art was apparently banned as a formal practice a few decades back, for being too dangerous, but most plants in the Sreng-Gautier border could kill a man with a single bite, so surely they understand?

Lorenz still glares at him when he carelessly opens the letter, while Hilda lets out a wistful sigh.

“I wish I had a lov-“

“Do not say that, do _not_ say it-“

The letter is made of flowery words and even more flowery metaphors, purple prose at its finest, so _ridiculous_ anyone would stop reading by the first line. It puts some joy in Claude’s heart to learn of the situation in Faerghus, though, so he can continue reading until the end. There is nothing _new_ this time either, same boring politics and boring economics, and the regent still refuses to fix whatever is wrong with their port, so in the end, it is the same royal stupidity as always.

That is until he finds the carefully hidden message scrawled in Almyran inside the envelope:

_Gautier secedes. Borders close._

Claude feels his heart skip a beat at the note.

From history he remembers, Faerghus lords only close their borders in extreme emergencies, and there hasn’t been a case of secession since the Alliance. Gautier is also a _large_ territory, even if it does not have many people, but the mineral resources from it (and its stolen region of Sreng) are _crucial_ for the economy of Faerghus; this would make the ongoing crisis even worse, weakening Southern Faerghus and strengthening the West. There could be a division crisis once again, a civil war in the middle of a famine, and that-

That is _not_ good.

He dares look at the Blue Lions’ table, putting his chin on his palm like he is admiring the view —Mercedes _does_ have a nice figure, but she would look prettier if she wasn’t covered in a blanket next to Annette. Felix has barely touched his meal, and Ingrid keeps stabbing at her meat without any intention to eat it. Ashe is trembling —he is _technically_ a noble, even if adopted, and the situation should be affecting him as much as the others.

Dedue isn’t around, and neither is Dimitri. Well, Dimitri hasn’t shown his face much since Sylvain’s disappearance, and when he does he looks like a physical wraith, like he hasn’t slept in years and the spiders have nested in his hair. He had once confessed to Claude that Sylvain was like a soothing balm to his soul, with his laughter and smiles and soft words, almost like a brother he never had, or like a _mother_.

Loss, and grief, is so hard to get through. Claude has never lost a sibling, not one he remembers at the very least, but he lost a whole family when he was forced to move to Derdriu, and he still feels like he is hanging by a thin thread. Everyone deals with it differently, though: he focuses on his master plan. He has seen the Professor at the small graveyard, simply sitting there as if waiting for their parents to return, and seen Dimitri tearing a whole training room apart. He has seen them all _act_ and _react,_ never stopping until they crash, and that crash seems to be what happened here.

Sylvain was the foundation of a house of cards. With him no longer here, the whole house crumbles, and maybe the whole Kingdom does as well.

Yet… Why close the borders? An emergency. What counts as an emergency? A missing heir. But then, why _secede_? Surely Faerghus could help them if Sylvain is still wandering out there free. There aren’t many places in Fódlan where red hair is common, and even outside Fódlan, it would be a warning. Sylvain is quite _Sreng_ to the sight and in mannerisms, at least from what Almyra taught Claude about them.

It might not be the emergency of missing the heir, then. Maybe it is something else, which does not explain some other things. Mostly, the expense, the resources lost by _seceding_ , especially to land as… barren, as Gautier. Frozen wonderland it might be, but there isn’t much to it except few poisonous plants and goats; Sreng is better in that sense, but it has also held a long-standing grudge against Gautier, especially the Southern clans.

And also, Sylvain.

Claude has combed every inch of the missing heir’s room, and come out empty. There were no letters, no bitter realizations, no dark eyes and restless nights that come from planning something as _big_ as running away: Claude would know, he had countless plans and contingencies set in place, in Qazvin and Derdriu and even here in Garreg Mach. Dare someone look, they would find them, yet in Sylvain’s case? There is nothing.

He discarded the idea that it is a runaway case long ago, though. So he has to look elsewhere. Like Mercedes, Lysithea, and Bernadetta.

No one could have expected Sylvain’s closest allies apart from his three childhood friends to be three girls he could probably easily seduce into his bed, right? Except, Sylvain never went after classmates, with the sole exception of Dorothea who had made it quite clear it had been a mutual arrangement. Townsfolk, commoners, the vague knight; everything, except classmates. And the three of them had known Sylvain better than maybe even Sylvain expected.

 _“He hated this place, sure,”_ Lysithea had said when distracted one day, _“but his love for his friends? That kept him steady.”_

 _“Bernie wrote the second part like you asked,”_ Bernadetta had spoken into the empty room, unaware of Claude hiding closeby. _“Why did you leave if you wanted to read it?”_

And then, there was Mercedes, gently cradling the _expensive_ mix of herbs in a jar that had arrived _two days_ after Sylvain had disappeared, already paid for and mixed. The deliverer had come into the Monastery when Sylvain had not arrived at their meeting place in time, worried, and handed them over to who she _knew_ had been Sylvain’s confidant.

_“Not here? What do you mean he is not here, he paid two goats in gold for these!”_

_“I know, I was there. I am sorry, Sara, he is gone.”_

Claude had asked, of course: Mercedes had given him a hollow look, then looked down at the jar and started crying, and he had abandoned that pursuit because Dimitri had appeared ready to break his arm. But, well, he _needed_ to know. It was, it _is_ an important clue, one he hadn't realized until a while later.

Those herbs? That mix? The unusually expensive mix of Srenge fruits, flowers, and Gautier herbs? Those can be poison, but they are also _medicine_. And anyone who regularly takes that medicine would be in a lot of pain when _out_ of said medicine, pain of both the physical and mental bodies. It would be the kind of pain that could stall a man in their steps, that could easily destroy someone from inside if it went on long enough.

And Sylvain did not have it.

Sylvain, whose medicine cabinet had been almost empty when he left, who had ordered more in advance because he _knew_ he could not go on without them, did not have them. A single day out of them would slow down his body, a week without them would bring minor hallucinations and _four_ months?

Gautier closes its borders and secedes, causing a fracture in the Kingdom’s chain of supplies and wealth. Sylvain leaves, probably to his death, and causes a collapse of his whole _class_ , including the heirs to the two most important regions of the nation.

This is no runaway case.

This was a planned _kidnapping_ , and he has all the proof he needs.

“Master Vestra, welcome back!” It is the same scientist as the first time, mask and all. Manic, too cheerful, strangely touchy. Hubert wants to scratch at his arm where the man has grabbed him, but that would be bad manners, so he does not. “We must thank you for your continued support in this case, it has been going beautifully, we might just get our first results soon, yes, the specimen you have gifted us has become an outstanding incubator!”

The path is the same as the other two times he has come here, and so is everything else. Still the giant glass prison with the creature inside —Lady, they call it, even as it keeps attacking everything that is inside with it; still the same yellow-green markings, still the same terrible feeling of dread whenever he comes inside. This whole place feels like his childhood home, and even worse: at least back then he did not know the truth of the world.

The beast is currently eating, which is different from other times, though. He watches with some fascination as it effortlessly tears into a Demonic Beast’s armor, pulls out the insides and gulps them down without even chewing. Its claws tear into the body, tearing out the spine like it is a fish, and throws it to the side so it can get to the tender meat without the bones in the way. It pulls out its heart, oddly fully organic and still beating, with a claw and sets it aside, and some person quickly sneaks past it as it is feeding to snatch the heart up.

“It puts the heart aside for its mate,” the scientist says as he unlocks Gautier’s room and leads Hubert inside. “Since it is currently hibernating, it rarely eats, and the heart seems to be a good source of nutrients for these beasts.”

Indeed, the room smells even more of blood than the first time he was here, and there is a pile of… something, oozing rot to the side. Another scientist is forcing small bits of bloody meat to the shape curled up on the cot, chewed and swallowed on instinct alone. Gautier has his arms wrapped around him, like when Hubert last saw him, but his eyes are closed and he seems to be unconscious.

Uncovered and under the eerie white light of the room, he looks even worse than last time. There are more puncture marks on his arms, small as if they used a sewing needle on him; bruises and rope burns on his legs, tiny red marks all over his thighs, lightning burns crawling from his back to his front like they belong there. His face is still a sunken mess, with blood gathering at the side of his mouth from where he is fed, and some liquid spilled on his side probably from where they forced something to drink down his throat.

Like this, he doesn’t remind Hubert of the Sylvain José Gautier he met in the Academy. Like this, he barely looks like a person, even less like a human with a name.

Hubert remembers a lot, maybe too much even for someone with his mind. At times he regrets his memory; he remembers the screams and wind cracks of his childhood better than those of the battlefield. He also remembers that first day of class, when everyone was still confused of what their Academy life would bring to them, and what kind of classes they would have. He remembers Lady Edelgard, giving a beautiful speech to the Black Eagles, and remembers Riegan also speaking to the Deers, but of the Lions…

Gautier had caught his sight from the very beginning, if only because the man attracted attention like light attracted moths. He had been there, just there, looking at the curriculum handed to them with a frown; he would later reveal he had already studied most of the theory, and that weapon practice was useless to him. It had been an interesting sight, because Gautier stood in the middle of a wide circle of emptiness, as if no one knew quite what to do with him or how to approach —until Fraldarius’s heir approached and hit his legs for ‘proper posture, for the Goddess’s sake, show at least _some_ of your upbringing’.

And then Gautier had beaten Hubert at chess, three times in a row, and suddenly he wasn’t just the ‘stupid flirty noble with everything given to him’ everyone said he was.

“Master Vestra?” The scientist is holding the sheets before him, and Hubert takes them out of lack of something else to do. Charts and graphs and notes, all cleanly gathered under the name of ‘Incubator Specimen #7’. He doesn’t really understand what he is looking at, but he _can_ understand some of the notes in the sheets.

_Shows signs of malnutrition. Proof of physical abuse with lack of proper medical care. Unusually high intellect ( ~~Crest related~~ odd brain activity, to monitor). Chronic muscle and nerve pain, ~~psychosomatic~~ hypothetical diagnosis: degenerative disease. _

Clearly Gautier’s life had not been what everyone knew it as, nor what he showed to his own friends. And now… it is worse. Hubert made it worse.

“I was thinking it is a waste,” a waste of a good mind, of great skills, of potential leadership. Lady Edelgard had said the thief Gautier could have been a great leader, but Hubert disagrees: the one who could have been so is the broken one right in front of his eyes. He rarely disagrees with Lady Edelgard, but with this…

“Ah, yes, the preliminary testing revealed really high specs in most areas. It has bad eyesight, but it shows a symbiotic relationship with its Crest even stronger than others we have seen. They wanted to try implanting too, but it also fell right within the parameters we needed to breed the beast, so it came to our department.” The scientist shakes his head and retrieves the papers, and the other scientist who had been feeding Gautier leaves the room. “It is going amazing so far, there is no rejection of its new organs or of the eggs, we believe they will hatch in a few months.”

A few months. Gautier’s stomach isn’t any larger than it was the first time he visited, but there are no bumps this time. It is smooth stretched skin, as if whatever is under it had finally settled into a comfortable position. Can eggs move? Do they move inside there, can Gautier feel them? If he put his fingers inside, could he feel them too? Would they press smoothly against him, warm and living?

“Master Vestra,” the scientist coughs, and Hubert looks up from where he had been stroking Gautier’s stomach. Why was he doing that? “If you want to use it, I can go outside.”

Use?

“You mean-“

“Ah, some of the others have done so, it seems to feel even while hibernating. They say it is an experience- not that I would know, I haven’t-“

“Won’t that… damage them?” _Some of the others_ , meaning Hubert wouldn’t be the first. He does not know what this feeling is, but he doesn’t like it. “The eggs, I mean.”

“No, no, they are hard shells, harder than most creatures'. Had it been earlier on there might have been some damage, but now it is perfectly safe!”

Hubert had always thought himself a strong-willed man, but as the offer is given, and when he looks down at Gautier’s unconscious form, he can’t find himself to say _no_.

The door closes, the eerie white light dims just a little, and Hubert moves Gautier so he is on his back, legs over Hubert’s own shoulders. The man —incubator, human, specimen— exhales weakly at the movement, lets out a small groan and unconsciously wraps his arms tighter around his stomach. He is asleep, hibernating, won’t wake up no matter what Hubert does; what is he waiting for?

 _“You want me to- what?”_ Gautier had looked part shocked, part flattered when Hubert had asked him to show him how to do it, how to have sex with a man. That had been his first time with anyone, and also the last; he had never _cared_ about such things before meeting Sylvain Gautier, and then he had cared only because it was the easiest way to ambush him.

 _“I do not have the experience,”_ he admitted casually, even as Gautier straddled his lap like something he did every day. _“Don’t misunderstand, I still do not like you.”_

 _“Likewise, Vestra, likewise.”_ Yet he had still led Hubert’s hands through the whole process, still had sighed and moaned out his name, still had let himself be pushed on his back and _ruined_ until he was aware no more.

Now, it is different, because Gautier isn’t awake at all. Hubert sinks in easily, all the way into the warm and wet nest that has, apparently, been used by others already. He can feel everything shifting around himself to fit in with no problem, feels the smooth brush of an eggshell for a second before it is gone, and it feels like nothing he has ever felt before.

Gautier’s skin, his neck, his thighs and stomach taste odd, like iron and blood and hard candy; his insides are searing, hot like a fever. His hair is long, longer than before, and Hubert tugs at it so he can bite at his throat: sweet, yet bitter, yet addicting in a way it makes him want to _swallow_ the man whole. His lips are chapped, stained in blood and still pretty, like all of Gautier has always been.

Gautier lets out small moans and quiet sighs, tiny pleas for more, even unconscious as he is. His body and legs tremble from the strain, his hands grasp his sides tightly, like he would burst at any moment. The way he moves is the same as Hubert remembers, yet not; something is different, something Hubert can’t help but crave more of.

He wraps his lips around a swollen nipple and sucks, and is surprised when something comes out, a thin liquid that tastes similar to Gautier’s skin; animals start producing milk when pregnant, right? Even males, then, or is this part of whatever they did to him to prepare for incubation? Truly, the human body— _Gautier’s_ body is amazing, and Hubert laps at the nipple for more of this weird, bittersweet milk.

Even unconscious, or maybe because of it, this man is _always_ tempting. And if things continue like this, he will continue being so, just growing more and more into the siren who would rip men and women apart if he so desired, but this time he will bring little beasts with him.

Hubert wants to see it. Wants to see what this man will become, what will become of what he holds inside him.

(He may have sunk in too deep.)

“Do you think Hubert has a lover?” Dorothea says one day, while sharing lunch with Petra. They are sitting a table away from Lysithea, however, the room is so empty at this time she can hear them clearly. “He has been in a good mood lately.”

“I have not seen this ‘good mood’ you speak about. He looks the same as before.” Petra’s words are slow and halted, carefully enunciated as if she wanted to get rid of her accent. She hasn’t taken a bite of her food and seems to be around more as Dorothea’s date than anything else.

“No, see, he has this weird spring to his steps. It is subtle, but it is there.”

Lysithea hasn’t noticed anything different on Hubert— not that she has been looking. Since day one, Hubert von Vestra had been put into a ‘don’t think much about’ list, along with some other weird people in the Monastery. Lorenz, for instance. Ignatz when he goes on about art. Bernadetta, when she shows up.

Sylvain as well, had been on that list, until she got to know him better.

She hadn’t come to the Academy to make friends, so she never _tried_ to get along with people. She is on a mission, to graduate fast and disappear as soon as she can, hopefully without her parents’ worry. She wants to travel, to see the ocean on the other side of Faerghus, or the many oases of Almyra. She wants to spend her life as she pleases.

She can’t, though. Not yet.

There are lots of people here who are only around for the sake of fulfilling a duty, but out of those, she only really got along with the most unexpected. Sylvain had been an odd man who many people had warned her away from: Hanneman, Seteth, Lorenz. Yet he had also been one of those people who treated her like everyone else, without distinction of class or age or _genius_ labels, and that was what had brought Lysithea close to him.

She… remembers him. She remembers him well. She also does not think he ran away, or that he is dead: he is probably out there right now, waiting for someone to rescue him —like a damsel in distress, or like a _princess_.

_“Hey, Princess, how about you stop playing with these people and come home with us?”_

_“Mistress, leave the knights, you don’t belong with them! We all know you’d rather be with one of us, right~?”_

_“Why are you even here, little Princess? Come take your Lance back, so you can go back and_ please _your beloved daddy?”_

Lysithea shakes her head at the memories: those disgusting, slimy voices sending shivers down her spine, caressing her sides like a lover’s unwanted touch. But they weren’t aimed at her, were they? She was only there as a companion, an adjutant to the main battle force.

She shoves her cake away from her; she is not hungry anymore. Sweets remind her of Sylvain, lately, of how he loved anything with the smallest citrusy taste, how he would buy all the cakes and share them with everyone who wanted a conversation. And Lysithea had abused that generosity so often, she wants to go back and do over all her interactions with the missing man.

Byleth- _Professor Byleth_ had put her with Sylvain often enough in the battlefield for her to understand a bit of him. He was quick, had unusually fast reflexes and would put himself in the path of _any_ attack in order to defend someone else, but needed a guiding word to attack. He needed a guiding word for _everything_ , as if he could not be bothered to choose his own path by himself: Felix got him up in the mornings, Dimitri told him to rest in the nights, Ingrid took him to eat his meals when he forgot to. Always, always someone at his side, or else he would remain in a single place and do nothing all day.

Yet, he cared for people too much, always putting them above himself.

 _“My eyes are really bad, so I can’t tell if it is an enemy or an ally,”_ he told her with a wink that day at Conand Tower. _“You will have to aim me, and I will protect you with this life, alright?”_

_“Aw, look, it is the Mistress, not wearing a dress today?”_

_“Say, my Lady, if you come here and don’t struggle, this brother of yours will give you a_ reward— _“_

She shakes her head once more to get rid of the memories. She is young, but she is not _sheltered_ , not like people think she is; she understands more than people would like her to, understands the way words and tone work. She lived hell on earth, and while her experiences were nothing like what she believes Sylvain’s were, she understood what _those people_ meant when they spoke. The bandits, those people who spoke Sylvain’s name and called him mocking words, yet their eyes lingered, their attacks aimed only to tease out some conditioned response. Miklan, that man who aimed for his own brother as if his own life relied on it, who tried to take him down _alive_ , whose dying words had been his brother’s name, whose last act before death had been reaching out for Sylvain.

And Sylvain had returned that gesture, even when his brother had been, _still was_ a monster who had maybe made his life only pain and shame, who haunted his dreams and his waking moments. Sylvain, who had known every one of those people, yet had still sliced them apart at a command. He had whispered their names as they climbed the tower, one after the other, like he would forget about them once their deaths came around and did not want that to happen; like a list of those who had hurt him and who he lived _for_.

And Lysithea had been the one and only witness to that act.

Lysithea also has a list of names in the back of her mind. Brothers and sisters, scientists and sponsors. Nobles who had only watched as her nightmares happened, people who had known and done nothing at all.

She wonders what Sylvain’s list was for. Vengeance, or something else? A reason to act?

 _“Princess?”_ He had looked at her with empty eyes and an even emptier smile, but in the back of it all she recognized it. The fear. The terror. The images flashing through his sight as he sunk deeper into the memories. _“Someone called me that? I don’t know, I wasn’t listening.”_

 _Princess_ , they said, and now he is a damsel in distress. Maybe stuck in a tower like those of fairy tales, or maybe stuck underground like the nightmares Lysithea sees every night.

She knows he is alive, because if he isn’t, then clearly there is no justice left in the world.

She knows, she hopes, she prays.

* * *

_Her mate is in pain._

_This she knows, as whenever she is done laying his eggs, he cries out in what is definitely pain. He cries out, and she leans in to clean him, licking his wounds and tears away._

_He will lay on their nest, eyes wet with tears as he looks at the sky. It is unreachable, she has already tried. There is an invisible force blocking the way, and when she tried for the first time they clipped her wing and hurt her very much. She has not tried again, but maybe for her mate she would try again._

_Her mate is in pain._

_At times, she can hear his screams and sobs through the wall of shiny stone that keeps them apart. He will scream and scream and only go quiet once he falls asleep, sobbing instead as he probably curls up on his side, holding his stomach-nest closer, as he is doing right now._

_She nuzzles at her mate, and he groans in response, arms wrapped around her neck. She picks him up on her claw, carefully, and lays down around him, covering him with her tail._

_There are six of her children inside him right now. He cannot take anymore, not without bursting open, and she fears he will not heal well if he does; so, she leaves the six inside and doesn’t try anymore. She believes the few children left inside her can wait long enough for these ones to be born._

_Healthy. Warm. Beautiful. They will surely be beautiful children, and hopefully they will be able to soar the skies without_ those people _clipping their wings. There are so many of them, she feeds them to her mate as an offering, yet they keep coming._

_There is a storm outside right now. Lightning clashes and thundering roars, like those of her kind long ago before they were captured. She misses the outside, even if she has never been there; the memories of her ancestors are with her, keeping her dreams warm._

_Her mate comes from outside. He smells of clean ice and storms, of sweet fruit and snow. It is a pleasant smell. She often falls asleep with that smell next to her, and wakes up alone._

_He will soon enter his long sleep, she can tell. He has been tired lately, too tired and quiet for her comfort. He speaks words she does not know and sings melodies she does not remember, and he is beautiful._

_“Lady.” He says her given name with such care and worry, almost like the soft fluff of his head, red like the late skies. “Lady,⬛⬛⬛⬛.”_

_She understands that. She understands those words, because he speaks in a tone she recognizes from her own voice._

_She is tired as well._

_Maybe her own long, infinite sleep is near, but at least she hopes she will be able to see her children before she joins Lady Sothis in her rest._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so tired of being stuck inside... Your comments bring me joy and light in these dark days. Also, we are now looking for names for the babies! Yay! Okay, some notes:  
>  _Sara_ : Shared Gautier OC with my lighter half, along with like... all of the family.  
>  _Lady_ : Her species is kind of a mix between Nabatean, Demonic Beast and Wyvern.  
>  _Why secede?_ : Good question. It's just politics. Dimitri POV will be fun.
> 
> Do drop by @ ktenologious at Twitter to yell at me about everything.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faerghus goes on a tangent about politics. Also, Hubert makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings:** usual stuff, oviposition, non-consensual sex, non-consensual pregnancy, a blink-and-you-miss-it implied past relationship, uuu convoluted politics? Dissociation, mentioned xenophobia/racism, some casual ableism. Also Relics are fully sentient.

No matter how bad the situation, they cannot stop moving.

That had been one of the ideals Sylvain lived— _lives_ by, one that he had made sure everyone knew before they could even walk. Sylvain was— _is_ winter sunshine, and fake cheer, and practiced smiles; he was— _is_ what kept his friends positive and continuing on, he is the drive behind many of their actions. Sylvain is the candle burning bright in Dimitri’s night, and also the fire keeping him warm in the long and dark Northern Winter.

Sylvain is not here anymore, though.

“ _Boar_! If you are not aiming that lance at the enemy, you _better_ not attack!”

Dimitri hears. Dimitri listens. Dimitri obeys, but only long enough to sink his spear into a Demonic Beast’s head and retrieve it. Vaguely, almost like watching a play of his own life, he recognizes Felix a few meters away, and Ingrid next to him. He sees Mercedes and Annette, with Dedue guarding them as they rain spells on shields. He sees Ashe and Bernadetta, up in the ballista, taking turns to aim at the enemy.

“Hilda, gambit on the middle Bird; Dimitri, follow through!”

Byleth is also there, somewhere behind him. Hilda is at his side, because this was meant to be a Golden Deer mission, but the Lions had followed them upon seeing the _sheer number_ of enemies they were fighting. Reinforcements had been called and they had responded, being close enough that they could get there within a few hours instead of the day-and-half march back to Garreg Mach. There have been lots of odd attacks lately, too many beasts for it to be normal. Dimitri wonders if it has something to do with Sylvain.

That’s ridiculous, though, isn’t it? Just like his life, and the current situation in Faerghus, and just about everything.

The battle continues. Claude sweeps in with a Wyvern and gives Dimitri a vulnerary; if he focuses a little, he feels someone’s healing magic wash over him. Was he injured? He does not know. His body is currently moving, but his mind is not completely here, stuck instead back in his room where he left the letter.

_To the Crown Prince of Faerghus, His Highness Dimitri A. Blaiddyd;_

_The news that have reached us have made my heart ache in the worst of ways—_

The letter is a single slip of browning paper, and arrived in an unassuming envelope signed simply with his name and the sender. It was delivered one evening by a runner in Faerghus’s colors, claiming it urgent, and that a reply is not expected, though Grand Duke Rufus would want him to write as soon as possible. The man took a short break before running off once more, with more letters and messages to be delivered, to all the Lords of the Kingdom.

 _All_ the Lords. That should have been an obvious hint that something was really, really wrong. Most lords don’t actually care about what goes on outside of their own territories, after all, and even Dimitri could be blamed for that. For all that he is meant to be the Prince, he has been more worried about school, of his friends, of finding out the truth. He had not worried enough about Lord Lonato’s rebellion, even though he should have; he had not worried enough about the land he is supposed to rule in the future.

_—We, of the Lands of the North, Warden of Ruin, have given our vow of peace and fealty to the Crown of Faerghus through the wars that assault our territory for many centuries—_

Faerghus has never really been a unified nation. The peace between territories is fragile at best, with ancient grudges and newer offenses making it so conflict can break out at any moment. In the end, it feels like they are all different families under the same roof, not quite a single entity yet not distant enough to not be considered the same. It has always been like that, and it will continue to be that way; maybe, when he is King, he will make an effort to fix it, but that also involves… being more _real_ to the world than he has ever felt.

His body goes through the motions of dodging, and stabbing, and _living_ , but his mind is not truly aware. He knows it is bad, to let his mind wander, but now that he looks at the issue, now that the problem has been delivered directly to his hands, he cannot look away from it.

The government of Faerghus started out similar to the Alliance in a way, with vassalage at its core: the Lords swore to the King, and the King protected their right to have land. Nowadays, it is more of an oath of fealty and tradition, similar to what Fraldarius had always been like: the Lords are loyal to the King because the King is the King and they trust the King to make right by them. Most contracts and arrangements had stopped being valid ages ago, the names signed in them fading with time, but the general idea of the terms have remained the same: in exchange for protection and the security of their status, the Lords offer their people and wealth to the Crown.

However, the oath is to the King, not to their neighbors. The Lords, the _people_ themselves hold grudges, grudges over borders, over stolen crops, over daughters and sons; and these grudges spark conflict. Small skirmishes between neighboring lands are common enough that they are considered a sport, and usually, they are settled without any casualties. The grudges remain, but the people are at ease once more, their desire for battle satiated once more.

In the end, Faerghus stays united through a mutual friendly rivalry between neighbors and love for the King. They share a culture, a language, most of a religion, and that is enough for them to consider themselves a nation.

Of course, there are always exceptions.

“Dimitri, I swear, if you don’t move _right now_ —“ He sidesteps, pulling Hilda along with himself; he grabs her by the waist, and she complains a bit, but all that matters is she is safe. The fire burns their hair from how close it is, and Hilda throws her axe at the mage with uncanny accuracy. “How _dare_ you burn my hair, you—“

Her ranting dissolves into Almyran, something Dimitri does not understand; maybe she is cursing, maybe just complaining. The mage is cut in half, their torso falling to the ground where it is trampled on by a riderless horse, and Dimitri seats Hilda on his arm so he can go retrieve the axe. He can’t see more enemies, but then again, he is not really focused on the battlefield—

“Dimitri, Hilda, the fort!” Byleth yells from somewhere, and yes, okay, there are more enemies in the fort. He makes his way there, carrying Hilda and her axe and his own spear, and settles once again on the mindless act of slaughtering enemy soldiers.

He lets his body move like it was trained to, and his mind wanders. What was he thinking about? Oh, right, the letter, and Faerghus, and the state of Faerghus.

_—We have defended your borders from our own ancient nation, killed our own brothers and sisters, and seen to the safety of your own country so that it stays safe—_

There were three exceptions to the whole ‘considering themselves a single nation’ ideal, all of them at the borders, all of them lands that had been claimed through war and blood. These three regions were conflictive in their own ways, and for a long while were considered separate, vassal states to the Kingdom instead of part of it. They had also sworn their own vows, be it by friendship, or mutual respect, or for peace, but they were distinctly separate of Faerghus; there were still signed papers behind their alliances that had to be renewed every few years, and people still saw them as foreigners in all but name. Teutates never accepted the Church of Seiros as their religion, Duscur never stopped practicing their own traditions until the Tragedy, and Gautier…

Well, Dimitri never expected that the situation with Gautier was _this_ bad. Sylvain never talked about it, and now he cannot ask; the whole mess was a secret of the court, treated as knowledge only a few people _could_ be aware of. It shows weakness, after all, and Faerghus cannot be weak, not when the Empire, Sreng and the Alliance are always poking their borders wondering if they can take _more_.

_—It pains me to write that, by the moment you receive this letter, us of Clan Gautier no longer consider ourselves part of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, or of the continent of Fódlan—_

The situation with Sreng had always been complicated. Dimitri had studied the history behind it, but he doesn’t believe that the written words are all there is: the Empire had drawn its borders across land that was considered sacred, the Southernmost clans retaliated, Gautier got stuck in the middle. There were some betrayals, some battles, territory lost and gained, and it just so happened that the ‘Lord’ of Gautier when Loog started his rebellion and the King of Lions himself were great friends. Gautier became part of the Kingdom through an agreement that could be summarized to ‘leave us alone and we will protect the border’, an agreement that was still valid until this day.

Apparently, not anymore.

He wonders if this is also what Hilda and Claude and the Alliance have to deal with. Almyra was different, though: there was a unified government, and peace treaties _had_ been signed in the past, even if they were void as of present time. Sreng, however, is very different: the Empire had named the northern territories ‘Sreng’ after one of the leaders that had blocked their path of conquest, making a distinction between Imperial Faerghus and _barbarian_ land. ‘Sreng’ is not what the people of Sreng call their own land, just the name Fódlan used to refer to them.

‘Srenge’ people were nomads, each clan considered their _own_ people: there was a vague culture unifying them, and a vague language they shared, but they weren’t unified at all. It was a bit like the old tribes of Faerghus, in a way, except Faerghus had been unified by force by the Empire. The only thing Sreng agreed on was that others had taken their land, and that _others_ were the enemy, and Gautier was very much _Sreng_ in that idea.

_—The centurial agreement we have reached and the vows we have given, have been breached, our own law ignored. This is the last in a long list of offenses that have been tolerated in faith of friendship—_

Sylvain knows more of the matter, because Sylvain is Gautier and thus _Sreng_ at his very core, but Sylvain is not here anymore to explain. Sylvain can’t try to defuse the situation with the Margrave deciding to secede, because _Sylvain_ was the trigger of the decision, the final offense. This isn’t _just_ because Sylvain is missing, just because Dimitri took his eye off him one day and suddenly he is gone, no. This had been coming for a long time now, and while Sylvain could have fixed it with time, Sylvain is _not here anymore_.

Now they have lost Gautier, leaving them vulnerable in the North, _right where the capital is_. Gautier territory was the largest of Faerghus, Gautier was a large part of their metal supply, Gautier _is not theirs._ Gautier was never fully Faerghus, but they were allies, and they supported each other. For centuries, the heirs of Gautier had spent their summers in Fhirdiad as a way to foster friendship, and Sylvain was no exception: him spending most of his childhood in the capital or Fraldarius had been a tradition, a way to _civilize_ _the barbarian,_ but Sylvain’s friendship with Dimitri had been honest. It should have continued being honest, continued being _real_.

Dimitri doesn’t feel very real, lately.

— _We expect our own citizens to be returned in peace, including our son and heir Sylvain José Gautier, before the third month of the Fódlan year—_

Maybe, the Sreng in Sylvain had finally overpowered the Faerghus, and he had left: gone back to the nomadic lifestyle of his people, to travel the land like Miklan had done before he was disinherited. Maybe it had been a choice, _maybe_ , but Dimitri knows it had not been so: Sylvain’s illness was also a carefully kept secret, and his medicine was left behind. His cup was _also_ left behind, so it could not have been anyone from Sreng as a way to force the Margrave into action.

Maybe it had been a gamble, to see what happens if you take one of the heirs of Faerghus away; maybe, it could have been Ingrid, or Felix, or Annette. Maybe—

“Your Highness, the battle, _focus on the battle_!”

That is Ingrid. Right, he is fighting. Who is he fighting, why is he fighting? He crushes a man’s head against a rock and feels the stab of pain where said man had managed to cut through his armor. He is bleeding, and Lysithea is by his side complaining about _people who don’t care for their lives, is everyone in Faerghus like this, Goddess help me—_

“Dimitri,” and that is Byleth, also by his side, holding his spear. It snapped in half, when did that happen? “If you can’t focus, I will have to leave you behind next time.”

Left behind?

No, he can't let that happen. His head does a dizzying dive back to his body, and he recognizes the world for what it is. It is real and noisy, and there is red (like Sylvain’s hair) everywhere, and Ingrid is poking her lance into a Beast’s corpse.

“Another odd one,” she says, weary. “The sixth one this month.”

“They are finding a way to mass produce them, uh,” Claude responds from her side. He is not holding his bow, the battle is _probably_ over.

“Dimitri.” Byleth grabs his arm, and Dimitri has to stop himself from pushing them away. _Battle is over, over, come back to reality_. “Can I leave you here without you wandering off?”

Yes. No. Maybe. There have been lots of _maybes_ lately.

“I’m okay, Professor.”

Preparing for a war is tough work. Hubert knows this, as he has been preparing for a war for the past few years. Now it is finally, _finally_ happening, and what is he worried about? Is he worrying about generals lacking training? Is he worrying about backstabbers hiding in the dark? Is he worrying about the lack of support they might get from their own classmates’ families?

No, not any of that. These topics cross his mind every once in a while, but he is also aware that there is nothing to be done about them right now: the lack of training will show itself in battles, backstabbers will be dealt with as they come, lack of support will either happen or not depending on how much they can bribe their way into the Ministers’ pockets. They all have their solutions, but he can’t fix them right now. No, right now he is worrying about something completely unrelated:

Gautier.

He should have gotten rid of that man the conventional way instead of trying to use him for Imperial gain. Now he is in trouble, and there is no way he can fix it _at all_ : the messenger is beyond his reach, the runner is long dead, and the Lance of Ruin is heavy and doesn’t like him one bit.

Why did he have to do the dirty work himself instead of sending someone else? They could have sent the Death Knight, or any other soldier whose loyalty was to them instead of the scientists; no, Hubert had to do this on his own, because anyone else could tell Lady Edelgard about what he is doing, and then he does not know how she will react.

So, he had gone to get the Lance on his own instead of sending someone else. He had been late, and now the messenger is out of his reach, possibly reporting to whoever is waiting for her at the border, and trying to reach her will make him late to his other appointments for the day. The runner is dead, at least, and the messenger is slow, but he can’t waste time on this right now.

The Lance is really heavy. Not for the first time, he is amazed at the skill needed from Crestbearers to carry their Relics around like they weigh nothing. It is also very, very _weird_ : it keeps swinging its wiggling limbs at him like it meant to attack him and, maybe, that’s what it wants to do, but surely Relics don’t have enough sentience as to do that.

He warps back to his starting point at the Academy, then warps away to the facility they are keeping Gautier. At least he can be sure no one is watching him: at this time everyone should be at the Holy Tomb, and a declaration of war is probably being made. He will have to remember to go back to camp and not the Academy later, then.

The usual scientist is waiting for him at the entrance. He doesn’t know her name, but he does know that she has some problems with hyperactivity and tends to lose things easily. Still, she is good at her job, and the moment he steps inside the building she is already taking the Lance off his hands and motioning him inside.

“Master Vestra! I heard the news, congratulations on your war!” That too: she seems to see war as a game, or a convenient tool to support research. “Do you need rest? Would you like to see the specimen, or are you here for something else besides delivering this? Oh, thank you very much, we can do so much with a Relic, you probably wouldn’t understand! There is still so much to study in the synchronization between Crest and Relics— that whole research got lost when House Bartels went down, you see, so we are a little behind on it, but with this and the specimen we can do so much more! You see—“

Hubert nods when he thinks it is right and hums at some things he pretends to be curious about. He doesn’t really care. He has dropped the Relic, and now he should go back, but—

“Oh, the specimen is awake right now. Not very aware, but it is doing things, it is amazing, would you like to see?”

He doesn’t get the chance to reply, as she has already grabbed his arm and is dragging him deeper into the facility. Internally, he sighs and curses his luck: this woman is useful, but troublesome as well, and she is _pushy_. She seems to think he is interested in Gautier more than just as a specimen, and she is _right_ , but she is not supposed to know that.

As they walk past Lady’s chambers, he sees it curled up near the cell at the side. It is nosing at the door like it would let it inside any second now, and it is a little cute, a little creepy, mostly terrifying. That thing is _huge_ , and the idea of it being able to open the door or break the heavy glass that keeps it contained feels like a nightmare.

Gautier is indeed awake, though he is just sitting next to the door leading to the dragon-like being’s containment area. Nothing is left of the practiced mess he was a few months before, not the shine of his eyes, not the seductive tilt of his head, not the soft lips he had cared for so much in the past. He just leans back, almost as if he wanted to hear what Lady has to say, but he isn’t moving, or doing anything at all. His hands rest on his huge belly, softly stroking the eggs under the thin shirt and skin, and with his lost eyes and the way he sways in place, he looks like a madman.

Hubert has seen insane people before, in the slums of Enbarr, even in the depths of the Abyss in Garreg Mach. They act erratically, and babble senseless words at whoever looks at them for too long. They will attack at the smallest provocation, drawing strength from their own insanity, and often need to be subdued or eliminated before they hurt the people who have more _worth_ to them. The mad are mad and do not have rights, here or back home or in any civilized place; he guesses that is why Faerghus is in the state it is, with a madman at its head.

Whatever was left of Gautier’s coherency has probably been beaten out of him, or slowly drained out through the use of drugs. Hubert doesn’t know what would be best: to simply give in to a stronger being, or to _feel_ as one’s mind fades into the darkness, and he doesn’t want to think about it. The man’s legs are naked, covered in bruises and tiny puncture wounds, and there are hand-shaped burns on his chest and arms; still, his eyes focus slightly upon seeing him, only to go back to staring at a distant spot in the nothingness of his life.

The scientist did not come inside with him, so Hubert takes the risk. He walks closer, kneels in front of the madman and lays a hand on his thigh: no response. His fingers crawl higher until he can grasp Gautier’s hip, pulling him towards his own lap: no response. There is something unnatural about how thin and light he is: he knows the man has already stopped growing (according to the scientists’ records at least), but the lack of muscle mass is definitely not healthy for a supposed ‘useful specimen’.

There is no reaction when Hubert unbuttons his pants, or when he lifts the dirty, ripped shirt off Gautier’s chest to reach his nipples. There is almost no reaction aside from a small, weak gesture to get away, when Hubert thrusts inside him as he has done before. When he licks Gautier’s sweet, metallic sweat off his neck, the man lets out the tiniest of whimpers, his bony hand struggling to shove Hubert away by his shoulder.

It is quick: Hubert has places to be at and people to meet, and he is delaying his schedule by being _weak_ to carnal desires. It is _almost_ silent: Gautier bites his lip to muffle himself, but he can’t contain the moans and cries Hubert drags out of him when his thrusts grow rougher. His legs tremble, his back arches onto the door, his arm practically _snaps_ in half when Hubert pins it down so he will stop scratching.

(If he listened close enough, he would be able to hear the roar behind the door, the almost-dragon gone in a fit of possessive rage, claws tearing at those trying to calm it down. As it is, Hubert is weak, and when he takes Gautier the world fades around him like nothing else matters.)

Once he is satiated, he leaves Gautier to return to his blank, empty state. The cloudy haze of madness settles once again in his eyes, even as he tries to recover his breathing. Hubert doubts Gautier will remember this encounter, just as he doubts he is able to recognize him at all; for all he knows, Hubert is just one of many scientists who have taken turns with his body while being used for experiments.

He is proved wrong.

When he is fixing his disheveled appearance, Gautier starts humming. It is a soft and quiet melody, that might have once been cheery, but is now full of melancholy and disinterest. He looks like a mother who sings to her unborn child, and Hubert is mesmerized by the sight. He watches for a few seconds, and then he remembers he has places to be at and people to meet, and he goes to the door.

He hears Gautier’s voice before the lock clicks behind him, incoherent syllables stringing a language that might or not exist:

“ _⬛⬛⬛. ⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛⬛_ , _Hubert_.”

The sound sends a shiver down his back, and for once in his latest years, he _fears_.

The news of the attack at Garreg Mach reach the capital too late.

Well, it is _just_ a declaration of war, but it was an attack nonetheless. Against the Church, too, something that wouldn’t have affected Faerghus _as_ much had they been at full strength, which they aren’t. While declaring war on the Church is not declaring war on Faerghus, it _is_ declaring war on the Church’s historic allies, the Ten Elites, and their families. Half of those families are in the Alliance, the other half in the Kingdom; declare war on the Church, and both of them will be pulled along.

Then again, as much as they are called the _Holy Kingdom_ of Faerghus, the Church had made their stance on most of their affairs —and those of the Alliance— very clear: they don’t care. Not about _most_ of them, of course, and with most of the current regions belonging to direct descendants of the Elites (and with those that _didn’t_ being subdued), the small fraction of affairs that the Church _did_ care about didn’t usually come up. The Church _had been_ planning to mediate between Gautier and Faerghus once again because it was in the Church’s best interests to keep all Crest-bearing, Relic-wielding Elite descendants in Fódlan, but…

Well, to start with, the messenger of goodwill they had sent to Gautier had been attacked, the Lance of Ruin stolen, and now the new Emperor of Adrestia declared war on them. Clearly, the Church isn’t going to be doing any mediating for a long while, and Faerghus won’t be seeing peace anytime soon. They are dealing with a delicate situation with Gautier, a potential Civil War up north and now waiting for the Empire’s upcoming invasion.

Rodrigue is too old for this.

Waiting is the worst part, if he has to be honest. They _know_ the Empire will do something, but they don’t know when, or from what angle. Will they be attacking the Church before proceeding north? Will it be the Alliance or the Kingdom first? They can at least be sure Sreng won’t be joining the Empire, because Srenge people hate the Empire more than they ever hated Faerghus, but what about their other neighbors? Is the Alliance safe to negotiate with right now? What about Duscur and Teutates?

Too many questions, not enough answers.

He misses Lambert. Talking with him about the nation was easier than talking with _Rufus_ , who just wants to do things his own way, nevermind he is only supposed to be a regent while Dimitri is preparing to take the throne. Rodrigue had known it would be difficult, but he hadn’t expected they would be the generation to lose Gautier’s trust for the final time.

He misses Lambert. He misses Glenn. He misses Madeleine. He misses Felix and his long angry rambles in his letters where he pretends he doesn’t care, and Dimitri who prefers his horse’s company over any other human, and Ingrid who sneaks around late at night to read while eating leftovers, and even his ridiculous little brother who steals his sweets. He misses days long gone when taking over Duscur through force was unthinkable, and when seeing a mourning hawk in the sky was good news instead of something to worry about.

He takes the letter with apprehension: Taiva is oddly over-dramatic, terrible at written communication, and communication in general, and should not be allowed near his own children, but he is also the head of a family, a land and now, a small nation. Hopefully, he understands what is happening, and that there is still a bit of sympathy and friendship left behind from their childhood; Rodrigue really hopes this is enough to keep Gautier at ease until they can find the Lance of Ruin —or Sylvain, whichever they find first. They can’t deal with an all-out war in the north while the Empire threatens their borders, not now.

He can only pray that Taiva will set aside his own grudge against Rodrigue and aim for the best for his own people. And, well, if Rodrigue has to offer his own life to the frozen rivers of Gautier once the war against the Empire is over, it is the least he can do after all the offenses he committed against House Gautier.

* * *

_Lady fears._

_There is the terrible smell of rot and death clinging to her mate, a layer of madness below his eyes and quiet cries of pain held inside his throat. She knows not what it is, but she knows what it is_ like: _it is similar to the black liquid they draw from the armored ones, or like the roaring storm inside her own head. It is_ corruption, _and fear, and the veil drawing over her life._

 _It is that one who visits at times, the one made of dark magic and the cold underground; it is also those people who cut up her wings, and those who buried her siblings. They are trying to do the same to her mate, and she_ won’t let them.

_She has too little things left in this world. Her mate. Her unborn children, who she can already hear calling from the inside of their shells. The children she has yet to lay, who she will fight against death for them to see this world._

_She won’t let them take another one of her family from her._

_But how? How can she protect her mate, her children, while inside this small space? How can she do anything when she cannot even fly the way she should be able to?_

_How can she get past this metal wall keeping her away from her mate?_

_SylSylSyl mine Sylvain?_

_What mess are you in this time?_

_SylSylSylvain?_

_Can you hear me?_

_Where am I? Where are you?_

_Why can’t I feel you close— what is that you hold?_

_Syl, why do you have children?_

_What happened?_

_Tell me everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took... a while. We had to do lots of weird reaching for things to make sense, but then again, this is how me and my lighter half write Faerghus and Gautier in general: on the brink of falling apart at the smallest thing. Granted, the case of Gautier is a little harder: many of the offenses committed against them are of the racist/xenophobic kind (before you tell me I shouldn't be writing this, I'm bicultural, and things with one side are always bad), and also uu Rodrigue might have fucked up there too. Anyways, let me...
> 
>  _Hilda_ : Hilda speaks Almyran. She isn't fluent, but she speaks enough to understand. Also she has her doubts about Claude.  
>  _Madeleine_ : Rodrigue's wife. She's dead.  
>  _Taiva Gautier_ : shared OC, aka Margrave Gautier. He... cares, in his own weird way.  
>  _LoR_ : Personal headcanon that Relics are sentient, okay, you have seen what I write.
> 
> Next chapter will probably be post-timeskip. Come poke me at @ ktenologious in Twitter if you want, I'm always open to discuss Sylvie torture.

**Author's Note:**

> Whew. This sure was a wild ride, I only wanted to write ovi but instead, I ended up with... a whole lot of plot... and it continues. I don't know _when_ I will continue it, but tbh being locked up at home is kinda tiring, and it isn't even required just yet. Then again, I barely leave my house so... lol. Many thanks to the people who shared their ideas for this, I'm not going to mention them but they know who they are!
> 
> As always, come talk to me @ ktenologious on Twitter. We have a ‘bully Sylvain’ server where we discuss things like this, it is growing! Slowly! But it is!


End file.
